


Lavender Smoke

by lavenderp



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/F, gayyyyy, pls be gentle it's my first time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-06 01:22:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15875601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderp/pseuds/lavenderp
Summary: My take on if Feyre & Morrigan were mates rather than Feyre & Rhsyand. This is my first shot at writing fanfiction but I had fun writing it and will continue to add chapters, so stay tuned if it's not too awful! Any comments will be rewarded with an awful pun.





	1. Chapter 1

Hello all! This is my well-intended (and probably very poorly executed) attempt to increase the amount of w|w literature. Not that I’m calling this literature – I haven’t written in a while and I’m hoping that writing my first fanfic will help kickstart my Steed of Creativity, so to speak. I don’t actually ride horses. 

I got the idea for this fic from 1) Being a lesbian and 2) Wishing that Feyre was too. From my perspective, it makes a lot of sense for Feyre to want something different from the dominating male that trapped and abused her. I imagine that Mor’s presence was a balm from the territorial Fae males vying for Feyre’s attention and together they would heal the wounds inflicted upon them. Also, along a much less meaningful vein, I had to suffer through SJM’s descriptions of Feyre fawning over “strong male jaws” and long members. Just thinking about it makes me cringe. Time to get some very, very gay revenge. 

P.S. I am 18+ but still a Baby Lesbian™ with no actual experience in dating women. If I eventually get brave enough to write some lovin’ I apologize in advance. But more importantly, if at any point their relationship seems unrealistic (keeping in mind this is fiction) or OOC, please let me know! I would greatly appreciate any constructive criticism. 

Alright, let’s do this.  
…

Morrigan felt it the moment she winnowed into that beast's castle to see the new Fae female collapsed on the ground, darkness and debris swirling around her. As Feyre howled in agony and despair, Mor felt the bond cement – on her side at least – and not a second went by before the young woman was gently plucked from the floor and whisked away to safer surroundings. 

Mor did her best to keep the emotions swirling within her tightly under wraps as she handed the unconscious female off to Rhysand in the hopes that seeing a familiar face upon waking would calm any residual panic. 

Depsite her best attempts to conceal the recent reveal of it, Rhys gave her a knowing smirk as she left the castle in the sky that suggested he knew exactly what was going on. Maybe he had known since he’d found Morrigan on their shared rooftop early one morning, just as the sun began to rise. The smell of morning dew contrasted darkly with the sting of strong liquor, the latter emanating from where the blonde reclined on a lounge chair shaped uniquely for Illyrian wings. 

“Are you still sulking?” Rhys inquired as he stepped onto the littered patio. “Or just getting started?”

Mor put out a carefully rolled cigarette on the paneled floor beside her chair as she looked over her shoulder at her cousin. “I promise I’ll clean it up,” she intoned before taking a long pull from the short glass by her hand dangling over the side of the wooden armrest. 

“I couldn’t care less about the mess and you know that,” he said calmly, easing into the lounge chair next to her. Rather than lying back, Rhys sat with his feet planted firmly on the floor to face the damage head-on. “I care much more about this,” as he gestures to her disheveled clothes and greasy blonde hair, “mess.”

“He just . . . ignores her, Rhysand,” Mor finally croaks out and Rhys has to brace his forearms against his thighs to prepare for whatever she has to say next because the only time he has ever heard his cousin this destroyed was the night she decided to sleep with Cassian. Mor takes another sip, bracing herself in a much different way, before finally unloading the weight that has been suffocating her for weeks now. 

“Ever since you brought Feyre back from Under the Mountain –” Rhys cringes not quite imperceptibly as he does every time she mentions the Mountain – “I’ve been barraged with her . . . nightmares? No, the emotions she feels are too real, too visceral to be imagined. All I know is that if I close my eyes, if I let my guard down for just one moment, I can see whatever is happening through her eyes.”

Rhys’s violet gaze widens as his mind sorts through and dismisses any potential explanation for why Mor would be linked to the newly immortalized Feyre. Before he can think too much about the possibilities, Mor is trudging forward, as if desperate to heave the weight of Feyre’s anguish off her shoulders and onto someone else’s if only for a moment. More than likely the calming effects of her favorite lavender-steeped tobacco and gin eased the passage of this pain. 

“She has nightmares, just like you. Whatever happened, and what she had to do, torments her –” Mor cuts off as she realizes how casually she is sharing intimate details of Feyre’s psyche. 

“It’s okay, Mor,” Rhys assures her. “I’m a demantae, I’ve had my fair share of unwelcome personal insights. I won’t hold it against you nor Feyre, but if you want me to give you space, I understand.”

“No, stay. I just wish there was something I could do, some way I could speak to her and let her know that she’s not alone. He- Tamlin – knows about her nightmares but he just ignores her. He pretends to sleep peacefully as she hurls her guts up in the next room and there’s no one there to hold her hair or rub her back or bring her water –”  
Mor ends her tirade by slamming down her glass and striding over to the railing, clenching the soft wood as she watches the sun rise over her home. She breathes deeply through her nose and reminds herself of where she is and how fortunate she is to be here in order to prevent herself from causing unnecessary damage. 

Suppressing the blurry image of the tops of Feyre’s knees as she clutched herself beneath the bathroom window, Mor steels herself to ask Rhys for a favor. A favor she has hopefully buttered him up enough for as she inquires just loud enough for him to hear.  
“You said she made you a deal.”

“Well yes, but that was only because her pride was getting in the way of her livelihood. I’ve actually been planning in figuring out some loophole-”

“Don’t.”

Mor keeps her gaze on the horizon as she hears Rhys rise to his feet behind her, and continues with her request.  
“I need you to call in the favor. I need you to get her out of there.”  
“Morrigan-”

“Don’t you ‘Morrgian’ me!” She grinds out as she spins around to face a stoic Rhsyand. “I know you can’t leverage her away from him for good, but maybe just a few days every once a while somewhere not the Spring Court will help her heal.”

Mor clenched her hands together across her stomach in an attempt to hide their shaking. This was a nervous habit she had yet to break from the incident, but she knew Rhys would understand the defensive posture without taking offense. His eyes soften as he realizes what she’s really asking for. As it dawns on him how much this means to her.

“Please, Rhysand. You know how brightly the Rainbow District glows in the sun and how the stars soothe the soul at night. If you could just pretend to care about the deal, to free her however temporarily, from their expectations and his goddamn filthy paws, I will take so many diplomatic trips to the Court of Nightmares and never complain about it ever again.”

Tears now run down Mor’s uncharacteristically pale cheeks as Rhys steps forward to embrace her with a quiet, “Yes, yes of course,” muttered into her ear. 

…

Next thing Mor knows, she’s pacing up and down the adjacent hallway listening to her mate, her fucking mate, and her favorite cousin banter like mortal enemies. The extent to which Mor had overestimated Rhysand’s charm became clear as Feyre’s shoe slams into the back of the Night Court’s fearless leader. 

Mor books down the hallway quick as she can before Rhys’s temper makes the best of him and reaches the dining room as Feyre storms out. Partly in an attempt to lighten his mood but mostly to rub Feyre’s defiance in his nose, Mor chirps out a sarcastic, “That sure went well!”


	2. Clubbing & Wedding Crashing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter to explain my version of the story up until Rhys saves Feyre from the wedding. It's angsty af and a good example of how I think I'm going to write this series. I'm loosely basing it off of "A Court of Mist and Fury" and may include identical scenes. Hope y'all will enjoy, again I welcome any constructive criticism (:

During Feyre’s first night in one of the mountaintop palace’s many spare bedrooms, Mor doesn’t get a lick of sleep – and she knows for a fact Feyre doesn’t either. Mor had hoped that having her mate under the same roof would soothe her nerves, but now she’s back in the lounge-chair on the roof. She’s been attempting to point out the constellations rather than dwell on the residual panic coursing through her veins. But the stars can only distract Mor for so long and eventually her mind cycles back to just last night – hard to believe that so much could happen in such a short span of time.

It’s the night before _their_ wedding and no matter how much Morrigan drinks and laughs at Cassian’s horribly embarrassing dance moves, she cannot distance herself from the feeling that her mate is dying. This time around, Mor is familiar enough with the feeling to know the fear jolting through the bond is just the stressed Fae’s strong emotions screaming at Mor across the bond. Yet Mor is unable to convince her instincts to relax because her mate is, in fact, _not_ dying.  

The live band transitions to the next song and suddenly Mor needs air because if Rhys sends her one more concerned glance she’s going to explode.

She stumbles through the entrance of one of Velaris’s lively nightclubs, relishing the night breeze that wicks the sweat from her brow and lifts her hair from her nape. A few fae stand in the street, seeming to take a similar break with friends or just passing by on their way home, and dip their heads in respect as Mor takes inventory of each of the faces surrounding her.

No matter how safe she feels in this beautiful and painstakingly protected city, she is always on alert. She at least tries to make up for her distrust by returning the nods with warm smiles before continuing around the corner of the club until leaning against the wall of the dark alley behind the large building.

As Mor rests her head against the rough brick wall, she closes her brown eyes and decides to face this new _thing_ that has suddenly become a significant part of her. She still does not know how to articulate what the bond is or what it feels like. All she knows is that something is tugging her very being to the Spring Court. Actually, to a very specific someone within the court: Feyre Archeron. Lost, tortured human turned Fae and future wife of one of her least favorite high lords.

These were the only facts Mor could glean from Rhys because getting him to talk about Under the Mountain was near impossible, no matter how much she emphasized the importance of collecting as much information on Feyre as possible. Rhysand remains skeptical, clearly not willing to accept Feyre as his cousin’s mate due to the hopelessness of any relationship between them. Also, it wasn’t especially common for the bond to be so strong before the involved Fae had even met.

Regardless of whether this was some off-hand psychic connection or authentic bond, the facts remain the same: Morrigan is miserable because her mate is miserable. And it just so happens that the source of her mate’s misery is numbingly triggering of Mor’s own miserable past.

So much doom and gloom and nothing is even happening to her! In reality she’s just a lonely drunk moping in an alley and as long as she can focus on that simple fact, she knows exactly what to do next. Get drunker.

So she collects her hair into a high ponytail and ties it off with the circle of ruby satin around her wrist, then struts right back into that club to buy another drink. In the blink of an eye she’s back in the circle of her friends on the dance floor, trying desperately to focus on how thankful she is to have Rhysand back in her life – safe and sound. But as she meets her cousin’s purple eyes through the artificial haze, she knows he can see right through her. And they both know that no amount of alcohol is going to fix what is wrong.

Mor doesn’t sleep that night either and the impending sense of doom radiating across the bond only intensifies as the sun rises ever farther around the horizon. Mor is sitting across the table from Rhys, who is currently trying to both feed her and entertain her, when Feyre’s voice projects directly into her mind. Rhys’s story cuts off as Mor drops the glass in her hand and clasps her hands to her ears.

Mor’s vision grays out and she’s unaware of Rhys standing next to her chair trying to get her attention. Suddenly she sees what Feyre sees: a bloodied aisle leading to her eternal entrapment. Bits of her thoughts are swirling through Mor’s head – surrounded by the spectators of her torment – she will never get better, never get free – she felt like she _was nothing_ –

“Rhys, Rhys please you have you do something,” Mor shouts, also unaware of the volume of her voice, so overwhelmed by her mate’s dread.

Rhys, pale-faced and shaking in concern for his cousin, frantically nods his head in vain and waits for her order, willing to do whatever it takes to save Mor from any more pain.

“She doesn’t want to marry him, Rhys, please, call in the bargain. Go to her, pretend this is just about the vow, and get her _out!_ ”

Moments later, Mor is snapped out of Feyre’s head as Rhys’s signature darkness descends upon the wedding.


End file.
